Before the Beginning: The Making of a Savior
by whydoineedapenname
Summary: We all know what happens after the prisoner is sent to Morrowind on a ship. But what happened before the ship, before the prison, before everything?
1. Prologue: A Day at the Marketplace

The boy peered around the vegetable stall, eyeing the wealthy noble making his way across the market square. This prosperous Dunmer must be new to Cyrodiil City because he carried his purse in plain view. Any moment now, a pickpocket would relieve him of his burden and teach him a lesson in proper attire when shopping in the capital, especially in this part of the city.

However, the boy was determined to reach the noble before other thieves got to him. The boy's reasons were not entirely altruistic; he wanted the drakes for himself. He turned to get another look at the noble and almost had his head removed by a passing cart. Cursing softly, he ducked and cursed again when the wheels of the cart struck a puddle and sent rancid water his way. Not that it made much difference, seeing as his common shirt was in tatters, his pants torn in several places, and he had no shoes to speak of. Bits of chokeweed and hackle-lo leaf clung to the sleeves of his shirt. His hair was matted and unkempt, dirtied to an indistinguishable brown. Whatever was its original color, one might never have known.

Shaking the hair out of his eyes, the boy sought out the noble amidst the crowd. He was conspicuous, the fine materials of his robe clearly setting him apart in the sea of commoners. Moving slowly so as not to attract the guards' attention (although that was hardly necessary), the boy made his way toward the noble. He did not have to be overly cautious, for the guards saw little reason to patrol this area. They considered it beneath their station to watch over what they derisively called "the rabble." To these Imperial soldiers, all commoners were the same—grubby, reeking, thieving lowlifes and foreigners too lazy and incapable to better themselves.

By this time, the boy had woven his way to the noble. Taking out a rusty iron dagger, he began surreptitiously sawing away at the string holding the purse to the Dunmer's belt. Within a few seconds, the fine cord frayed, unraveled, and then snapped. Deftly catching the purse, the boy hid it inside his shirt and disappeared into the crowd. The noble was none the wiser until he tried to make a purchase and found his coins gone. Thereafter, he was never seen at the market square again, but he must have been a prominent person, for the day after, private guards dressed in smartly polished armor stomped through the area, overturning stalls and beating several commoners.

Hidden in the cellar of a house, the boy watched the actions of the guards. To his credit, he made the connection between the purse on the ground of his humble abode and the destruction outside. Also to his credit, regret filled his heart. It was a strong emotion, but hunger and the need to survive drove him on. The drakes from the purse would last him at least a week if he were frugal, but it was always better to have more money at his disposal. After the guards left the square, the boy ventured forth again, seeking perhaps a less powerful victim. It was all in a day's work for him, this life, the only life he had ever known.

**In Cyrodiil City, the most influential people were most likely the Imperials. But this Dunmer noble had money, and money, as you shall see, speaks volumes in the world of Tamriel/Morrowind.**

**Also, if you didn't figure out already, the boy eventually becomes the one the Emperor sends to Morrowind in the beginning of the game.**

**This is my second Morrowind fanfic, but it's in a totally different category from my first. Reviews and constructive criticism would be much appreciated. Happy holidays!**


	2. The Wheels Turn

**Thank you to ****AsparagusZeTurkey**** for reviewing!**

**I do not own anything you remotely recognize, since those probably belong to Bethesda ****Softworks****, the company that made ****Morrowind****. The unnamed character is my own, and that's about all I own.**

**Note: Whenever it says "the male," that signifies the main character. "He" ****in ambiguous circumstances ****generally refers to the main character also, unless it is clearly not so from the context.**

* * *

A grim smile flashed on the face of the young male before it disappeared immediately. He suppressed any outward expression of the glee he felt inside, knowing that to appear anything other than angry and miserable would earn the suspicion of his fellows. Despite the shift in his countenance, his mind was still laughing at the ineptitude of the guards and merchants in their response to his latest feat. Leaning against the crumbling stone wall in a narrow alley, he turned over the events of the day in his head.

* * *

Earlier that morning, he had penetrated deep into the wealthy section of the capital city, heading directly to the fine clothier. Next to this shop was the weapon smith, to whom he would pay a visit shortly after. Once he reached the square where the merchants were located, he straightened his stance and sauntered nonchalantly to the entrance of the clothing store. Dressed in expensive shirt, pants, shoes, and robe he had taken from a caravan the week before, he looked much like everyone else in the area. In the deep pockets of his robe were clinking pieces of septims. Fake, of course, but even to the experienced eye, they appeared authentic. Only he knew they were worth less than muck, for he made them himself. Clearing his throat, he opened the door and was instantly greeted with brilliant colors of all hues imaginable. Bolts of fabric were stacked in a storage area near the back while the counter was drenched in a beam of sunlight from a high window.

"Greetings," the storekeeper, a medium-height Imperial woman, said, "How may I help you?"

This was the hardest part. The rich fools had a distinctive, imperious accent that he could not imitate, try as he might. As a result, any verbal communication would have to be short. In fact, not to speak at all would be ideal.

"Sera?" the woman inquired.

The young male narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin, copying the attitude of the nobles and guards who occasionally graced his canton with their presence. He gestured at the fabrics in the back and indicated his shirt. By not speaking, he thought the storekeeper would conclude he was mute. He was right. She blinked and gaped at him for several second, then grew red.

"Oh, sera, I am so sorry," she hurriedly said. "Please, point and I will fetch the materials you desire."

Forcing a smile he hoped was conciliatory, he inclined his head in the direction of a radiant golden cloth. Then, indicating his pants and robe, he pointed at a bolt of deep blue material. The clothier, meanwhile, was bustling about, responding to his every look and gesture. After gathering the two colors, she spoke again.

"I have not seen you around, so you are probably new around here," she said. "Please allow me to take your measurements."

He took a deep breath and nodded once in agreement. With any luck, the dunks he took at a river outside the city gates would pay off, because people who lived in his run-down canton with its exploding rat population tended to emit a certain odor that was easily detectable. Fortunately, the half hour he spent submerged or partially submerged in the freezing water had washed the stench off him. The woman did not smell a thing.

After measuring him, the Imperial told him the clothing would be ready by next week. Expecting the long wait, he had planned out his next steps carefully. Gathering an angry storm in his eyes, he emphatically shook his head no.

"Uh, sera, it takes time to make exquisite clothing. You must understand, there are other customers, some who have been waiting days already," she tried to explain.

Setting his lips in a thin line, he still shook his head.

"I would ask you to have just a little bit of patience," she tried once again. "They will be worth the wait."

Sighing in feigned frustration, he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, indicating he did not want to have his clothing made any more. Then, taking great care to walk quietly and with dignity, he turned around and made his way to the door. Along the way, he slipped his hand into his pocket and jangled the coins, making sure the clinking sound was audible throughout the room.

"Sera!" the fine clothier called out. "With some compensation, I might be able to…"

With his back still to the woman, he smiled, then let it fade and turned back towards the counter. He took out 40 jade green and gold coins and laid them on the counter.

"Your clothes will be ready by tomorrow."

He shook his head and started gathering up the coins, but doing it slow enough so that the merchant would have sufficient time to stop him again.

"I shall begin right away and you can retrieve them this evening…"

The original 40 coins were joined by 10 more on the wood panel. He pretended to hesitate, then took out 20 more coins.

"… this afternoon, sera."

He inclined his head and strode out of the store. He could hear her calling out something about it being nice to do business with him, but his mind was already preoccupied with thoughts of the weapons shop next door.

To him, his plan was simple and brilliant. He would order a set of clothing and in the time it took for them to be made, he would loot the weapons shop. "Loot" might not be the right word, since he aimed to do it so discreetly that no one would notice anything was amiss. If all went as planned, he would soon be on his way to unknown power and influence. With the proper garments and dazzling weapons, he knew he could impress (or frighten) most people enough to get what he wanted out of them. It was a tactic he had seen often enough, usually employed by filthily wealthy nobles against the traders near his hideout. These were traders who scraped by on a few coins a day, barely able to feed their hungry children.

The male shook his head to clear away the image of famished children gazing out of empty eyes. They were not his worries. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand—acquiring power. He would use the nobles' own strategies against them, he would throw their taunts in their own faces, he would outwit each and every one of them, and he would prevail. Too long had they lorded their status over him, and now he was ready to strike back.

Surveying the front of the weapons store, he waited for the right moment. He did not have to wait long, lounging casually against the door of the clothier, before a potential customer, a High Elf, went into the shop. Counting softly under his breath, he reached "five" and strode to the entrance, grabbing the door which was about to close behind the customer.

Upon his entry, the weapon smith, who was a female Redguard, looked up from the sword she was examining with the Altmer.

"I shall be with you in a moment, serjo," the merchant said.

Nodding, he stood behind the Altmer and glanced around the room. It was rectangular, with a set of stairs behind the counter, presumably leading to the Redguard's living quarters. To his right, there were multiple shelves filled with an assortment of blades, darts, and bows. Immediately to his right, near the door, stood an Imperial guard who looked like he would rather be at a bar, sipping away at a bottle of shein. To his left… Perfect! There was a small alcove that extended back from the counter. If he ducked into it, he would be out of the guard's line of vision.

He slowly made his way to the left side of the room, pretending to be interested in the blunt weapons displayed there. He picked up a mace and weighed it in his hand, then replaced it on the shelf. All the while, he could feel the guard's eyes boring holes in his back, but that was of no great significance, since he was the only moving object in the room at the moment, and bored people tended to look at moving things. To show the guard that he was not a threat, he inspected every single piece of item on one shelf, then moved on to the next. Pretty soon, he could tell the guard was growing tired of his inspection because the feeling of someone staring at him was gone. Seizing the moment, the male scooted into the alcove and backed into the corner. So far, so good.

Reaching into his robe, he withdrew a bottle and uncorked it, swirling the contents inside. It was a Standard Potion of Invisibility, which he had been saving for just the right time. Holding the bottle to his lips, he was prepared to drain it all before he paused. He would only have 35 seconds to swipe the weapons and exit the shop, so everything would have to be planned out and coordinated beforehand. Corking the bottle once more, he considered what to do.

The Altmer had finished the transaction and was now browsing the wares. If there was ever a time to act, it would be now.

He uncorked the bottle once more and drained it in one swallow. When he brought his hand up to the level of his chest, it was no longer visible. Knowing he had precious few seconds to accomplish what he wanted, he swiftly dashed towards the weapons, quickly considering which items to make off with. He never had any professional arms training; no one in his canton could afford such lessons. Therefore, he had not the slightest idea whether he had skill with blade or bow or staff, so he would have to take one of each kind. In less than half a minute, a silver dagger, a steel claymore, a bonemold long bow, an orcish battle axe, and a dreugh club had made their way inside his robe. Just when he was contemplating taking a few darts, he almost failed to notice that his fingers were slowly reappearing. When he did, he could feel his heart in his throat; he had stayed too long. It would only be about five seconds before his whole person would become visible.

Running hastily toward the door, he found his way blocked by the Altmer who had one hand on the doorknob and was turned towards the merchant, taking his sweet time saying farewell. In one rapid maneuver, the male spun the High Elf around and jerked the door open, all while invisible. Before making good his escape, he slipped a hand into the Altmer's robe and deposited the silver dagger there. It was a costly sacrifice, but arrest would be an even costlier alternative.

Moments later, safely hidden behind the weapons shop, he heard a cry of "Help! Thief! Guards!" Suddenly, a great clatter filled the streets as armored guards poured into the area and into the shop.

"There is no escape! Surrender now!" the guards cried.

Soon, the male could see the commotion from his hiding place. The Altmer was held between two guards, who were not at all gentle in their treatment. The two guards, the now-prisoner, and their escort made their way towards the town center, where the jail was located. He was about to emerge from his spot when he felt eyes on him. Looking up, he saw it was the High Elf staring at him. There was nothing but burning hatred in those eyes. He met the stare, acting as though he had nothing to fear, though his inside had turned softer than squib jelly. Never before had he been so thankful at the sight of those bracers on someone else, draining away deadly magicka that could surely have reduced him to a pile of ashes before he had time to say "Tiber Septim." The Altmer would have been a formidable enemy indeed.

After he had recovered sufficiently from the unnerving gaze, he ate some bread the local baker had wastefully thrown away. The chewing motion calmed him further. Waiting until the sun had traveled further towards the horizon, he had gone to the clothier to collect his clothing, an altogether uneventful transaction that depleted his supply of counterfeit coins. The package tucked under his arm, he had carefully clung to the shadows and overhangs of buildings until he reached the poorer sections of the city, where he now leaned against the wall of a narrow alley.

Tomorrow, he would start his new life. Tonight, he would simply savor the success of his undertaking.

* * *

**What do you think? Is this story worth continuing?**

**Was it too drawn out?**

**Comments, questions, suggestions are welcome.**


	3. Building Up

**RECAP: An orphan boy in Cyrodiil City witnessed the power of the nobles while growing up in the impoverished quarters of the metropolis. When he grew older, he made counterfeit coins and procured fancy clothing and weapons. He was nearly caught when stealing the weapons, but an innocent Altmer customer ended up taking the blame and being arrested for the crime.**

**I do not own anything you remotely recognize, since those probably belong to Bethesda Softworks, the company that made Morrowind. The unnamed character is my own, and that's about all I own.**

**Note: Whenever it says "the male," that signifies the main character. "He" in ambiguous circumstances generally refers to the main character also, unless it is clearly not so from the context.**

"Move along, scum."

It rolled off his tongue as though he had been saying it since birth. The commoner at the receiving end of the insult quickly scurried away toward the town square, glancing back with fear plainly written in her face. He sighed and leaned against a doorframe, his neatly combed hair blowing in the breeze. He had come to town to inspect the construction of his stronghold. The work was progressing steadily, the foreman being a decent, reliable fellow. However, he was alarmed to find commoners squatted on the edge of his property and built fires and slept there at night. In his alarm he stormed toward their camp and promptly evicted them all, women and children. _Poor women and children,_ he thought, _they could have stayed another night. And yet to show compassion would be unbecoming…_

His train of thought was interrupted by an Imperial who approached him.

"I found the one you were looking for, serjo."

"Well done," he replied. "Bring him to my country estate tomorrow. Make sure no one follows you."

"Yes, sire," the servant bowed and hurried to do his bidding.

The next day, he reclined on a couch in the living room, reading a history of the Empire written by Queen Barenziah. _Fascinating, though biased_, he thought to himself. He placed the book on a desk and glanced out the window. The Imperial servant was coming up the path, holding the arm of a wrinkled old Argonian.

"We have arrived," the Imperial announced.

"So I see," he answered dryly. His servant flushed.

"You may have the rest of the day for your own pleasure," he said, dismissing the servant, who swiftly made his departure. He watched the servant stride merrily to the servants' quarter, where the Imperial and his companions would probably spend the afternoon and evening carousing and exchanging tales.

"Who are you?" A voice brought his attention back to his visitor.

"That is of no significance," he replied in return to the Argonian's question. "For _I_ do not even know who I am. But I know who you are."

"Oh?" was the calm response.

"You are the great master trainer. Blinded at a young age, you applied yourself to learning every martial art in the land, triumphing over those who still retained their sight. You also trained many assassins in your time, but a pilgrimage convicted you. Afterward, you disappeared without a trace. Though sought by would-be apprentices and avengers alike, you were nowhere to be found."

"Until now, by you."

"Yes. I have many means and many sources. I confess the search was unexpectedly short; to that I credit my trusty servant."

"Your servant is indeed a man of talent, but I would not have been found had I not willed it myself," the Argonian said.

"What do you mean?" he asked. _Is he saying he let himself be found? Why would he do that?_

The Argonian chuckled but said nothing, which exasperated him. _How dare he not answer my question in my own house?_

"You are growing angry," the Argonian said. "Your anger clouds your judgment. You must learn to contain it."

_Or what?_ He retorted in his mind.

"Or you will not fulfill your purpose."

"My purpose?" He echoed, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice at the Argonian's seeming ability to read his mind. "I have no other purpose than to learn the art of weapons."

"Ah, that is only one of your purposes. Weaponry, for you, is a means to an end. But I will teach you if you are willing to be taught."

_I didn't even ask him to train me yet, and he has already offered? This is too easy, and nothing in life comes easy. I must take care lest this be a trap from my enemies, mortal or divine._

"Do not fear a trap. I only work for what is good," the Argonian soothed.

"Enough," he commanded, disconcerted by the way the conversation was going. "My servant will show you your room and provide you with anything you require for your personal needs and for the lessons. Farewell." He summoned a house servant who escorted the Argonian to the guest wing of his country house.

Left alone once again, he seated himself in an armchair, staring into the crackling fire in the fireplace, deeply immersed in his thoughts. His plan had fallen into place like a well-oiled machine so far. Armed with dazzling clothing and weapons, he made himself a fixture in the streets of the noble quarters of the capital city in the daytime (at night he made counterfeit coins from muck). Not only was he making himself a familiar sight to the nobles, but he also had ample opportunity to observe and practice (under his breath, of course) their way of speech, accent and intonation and all. After several weeks, noblemen and noblewomen were greeting him and inquiring of him the reason for his visit. He was looking to expand his estate, he would tell them, and having a residence in the city was crucial to his business. He was therefore on a quest to obtain a deed to an ideally placed piece of land.

Soon his newfound friends came to him with news of a noble who died and left no heir, and whose land in the city was for sale. This land was now the site of his soon-to-be finished stronghold. Once construction began, he informed the nobles that his business required that he return to his home region. He then made several days' journey into the countryside and set up a small marshmerrow plantation, a legitimate operation sufficient to supply his needs. He threw himself into study, learning everything from the lore of the Empire to the spells of the mages to the art of speechcraft. All these he could learn from books and from guests who would pass by seeking his hospitality. But one thing he lacked, and that was a weapons master, someone who could train him vigorously and consistently until he was a match for most opponents, someone who would not question his suspicious lack of skill as a nobleman.

This caused him many a sleepless night until he overheard the servants speaking of a legendary Argonian trainer who vanished without a trace after renouncing his trade. He knew this was the one he needed, and he sent for his servant immediately to seek out the Argonian. Within two weeks, the Argonian had been found.

_Was he telling the truth when he said no one could find him unless he willed it?_ He wondered. _Or was he just bluffing? Is he even the right Argonian? I should have told him to prove himself… not that I could tell the difference between skilled and unskilled swordplay. Well regardless, weapons training start tomorrow. I better get rest tonight. After I become a formidable warrior, no one will be able to resist me. I will no longer be in want of anything ever again._

A clap of thunder jolted him out of his reverie. An image of women and children huddled beneath an overhang, shivering in the rain, came unbidden to his mind. _They will no longer be in want of anything ever again._

**What do you think? Is this story worth continuing?**

**I haven't written a chapter in years, so please give me feedback, especially if the story is confusing.**

**Comments, questions, suggestions are welcome.**


	4. Breath Before the Plunge

**RECAP: An orphan boy in Cyrodiil City grew up in its impoverished quarters. By making counterfeit coins over the span of years, he was able to amass a sufficient fortune for all the trappings of nobility, country estate included. The arrival of a renowned weapons master at his estate ushers in the new phase of his plan.**

**I do not own anything you remotely recognize, since those probably belong to Bethesda Softworks, the company that made Morrowind. The unnamed character is my own, and that's about all I own.**

**Note: "He" in ambiguous circumstances generally refers to the main character, unless it is clearly not so from the context.**

* * *

In the chill air of the early morning, he stamped his feet on the frozen ground to produce warmth. The Argonian weapons master told him to meet in the courtyard at the first hour past dawn. Here he was, but where was that old lizard? As he waited, anticipation churned his innards. Today at last, he shall cross the threshold into completing his scheme. Long ago he had learned to adorn himself in the proper attire and to use the Imperial intonations in his speech, but he had yet to find someone willing to train him in the method of the sword. Only then could he fully take on the guise of a nobleman, raised in one of the finest houses of which the Empire could boast.

"You are here," a raspy voice intoned. "Good."

"Morning," he replied, turning to face the Argonian. "How would you like to be addressed?"

"Illustrious master, perhaps," the Argonian cackled at his own humor. "But for everyday usage, you may call me Twice-Eyed."

"Twice-Eyed?"

"Blind I may be, but my senses are as good as though I had regained my sight. So too shall you be if you heed my teachings. If you do not, you will become like my cousin Nine-Toes."

"What do you mean?"

"He's only as good as a man with nine toes. Throws off your balance, you see? We Argonians are fortunate to have our tails to compensate for such accidents as—"

At this the Argonian took a swipe at his trainee's feet, and he only jumped out of the way in the nick of time.

"Not bad, not bad," Twice-Eyed muttered. "You may yet have a bright future. Let us commence."

After a wearying day filled with drills and calisthenics, he slowly lowered himself into the warm bath, relaxing his muscles and examining the various bruises forming on his legs and arms. Performing one hundred lunges was a feat in itself, but to undertake such an endeavor while avoiding a club-wielding giant lizard was a herculean effort indeed. He would need many more days to become adept at that particular skill. Despite his aching limbs, he allowed a smile to briefly flit across his face. The sun was rising on this new chapter of his life.

* * *

These days, he found he needed very little sleep to refresh himself. Perhaps he was growing stronger and improving his endurance. Whatever the cause, he had found ways to occupy him in these newfound hours of the day. He would go on nighttime excursions to explore the nearby foothills, while in the daytime he either trained or hired himself out for short freelance missions, anything to give him opportunity to hone his skills. He was making preparations for one such mission now.

Two days ago he had met a lady standing at a crossroads, obviously out of place in her expensive dress. He approached her to see if he could help, and she commenced her tale of woe.

"Three years! Three years I have paid and clothed that scum, and this is how he repays me?" she cried. "Never trust a servant again!"

"What happened?" he inquired.

"My trusted servant," she replied sarcastically. "He and I were traveling from Cyrodiil City to my husband's hometown. All was well when we reached this crossroads. Suddenly, he dashed off with all of my possessions and left me stranded here to fend for myself. So much for loyalty in their kind, the n'wah…"

"Which way did he go?"

"Why does it matter?" she retorted. "All is lost. Wait! Will you look for my servant and bring him back here? I can reward you handsomely if you do."

He hesitated. What kind of situation was he getting involved in? On the other hand, this could be the beginning of an adventure, one he was very ready to have.

"Certainly," he agreed. "Tell me which direction he was heading, and what he was carrying. He couldn't have gone far if he was carrying much."

She told him that the servant went down the eastern path and carried all her books, clothing, potions, food, and jewels. The servant himself was nondescript enough, dressed in common clothes and a pair of cloth bracers.

"I will find him, or what remains of him," he promised. "Would you like a place to stay in the meantime?"

"No thank you," she said. "I will stand in this same exact location in case he comes back in remorse."

He had set off on the eastern path, sweeping his eyes from left to right to more easily note anything out of the ordinary. About half a day's journey into his search, he found a Khajiit with cloth bracers standing by a small pond, looking quite disheveled. The woman never mentioned her servant's race, so he wondered if this beast was the servant. He decided to approach cautiously.

"Good day," he greeted the Khajiit. "What brings you to these parts?"

"Would you like to hear my story?" the Khajiit said in reply. And not waiting for a response, he continued. "My name is J'Dzan. Three years ago I left my homeland and my beloved sister in order to find a living on the mainland. I have done well for myself working for a noble family, but trouble struck on this journey I was taking with my lady. We came to a crossroads close to here. We sat down to rest and I went to find some roots nearby when, all of a sudden, a cliff racer arrived and took off with my lady's pendant, which she had laid on a rock. I chased after the bird to this pond here, where the bird dropped the trinket into the water. Many times have I dived into the water to recover the jewel, but I could not find it. Now I fear my lady believes me to be a traitorous thief."

At this J'Dzan sighed and looked once more over the water.

"Why could you not find the pendant? The pond looks exceedingly shallow to me," he questioned.

J'Dzan cocked his head. "That is what I cannot understand. I can nearly see the pendant from here, and yet when I go into the water, the bottom is never-ending. I believe there is some witchcraft involved here."

To verify J'Dzan's claims, he peered at the pond. Indeed, one could make out the pendant resting at the sandy bottom. He waded in, the water reaching only to his calves. When he reached his hand into the water to pick up the pendant, the sand beneath his feet shifted and he found himself plunged in over his head. Paddling swiftly to the surface, he gasped for air and discovered he was standing in shallow water again.

"I told you," the Khajiit commented. "Witchcraft."

That was two days ago. He had left J'Dzan at the edge of the pond, promising to return with supplies to retrieve his mistress's pendant. Then he headed for his home, trying to think how to recover the jewel without meeting his end in a watery grave.

Now he sat at his table, alchemy ingredients and books strewn across the surface. He had carefully measured out the required amounts of kwama cuttle, pearl powder, and the last of his remaining stock of luminous russula. Mixing the ingredients together and allowing them to simmer for a full day, he was confident the resulting potion would allow him to complete this quest. He poured out the sludge into two small bottles for the purpose and tucked them into his satchel. Next, he girded on a thin one-handed blade in case he met with any trouble.

"Salutations, good master," J'Dzan exclaimed when he approached. "It has been two days."

"Yes, I know," he said. "It took some time to prepare the potions. But no matter, we will soon have your mistress's pendant in hand."

With that said, he took out the two bottles and held one in each hand. He waded out to the pond again and uncorked one of the bottles. Each potion gave him a quarter of a minute underwater, so he would have to act fast. He glanced one last time at the Khajiit and then swallowed the contents of the bottle, at the same time reaching his hand toward the jewel. The water engulfed him like before, but he was ready this time. He swam deeper to the point that the light from the sun was growing dim. Where was the bottom?

He had resolved that he would only go as deep as the first potion would take him, for he would need the second potion for the return trip to the surface. From what he could tell, the bottom was truly never-ending. In frustration, he extended his hand as far as they could go. There! His fingers brushed past something. He fished for the object again and came up with the gold link chain holding the pendant.

Just at that moment, he felt his breath running short. He quickly brought the second bottle near his mouth, uncorked it, and tried to drink the potion without swallowing more water. Oxygen returned to his lungs and he swiftly kicked his way towards the sunlight.

Meanwhile, J'Dzan was worriedly watching the bubbles on the surface of the pond. He was overjoyed to see a head emerge, and even more exhilarated to see the pendant dangling from a hand.

"Thank you, thank you, kind master," the Khajiit effused. "If you ever have a need, please let J'Dzan know. And I have a nephew, a very good merchant, by the name of Ra'Virr in Morrowind, should you ever chance to travel there. Tell him I sent you."

"I will keep that in mind," he said. "Now let us together return to your mistress and hope for a kind reception."

J'Dzan grew quiet at the thought and they traveled wordlessly together to the crossroads, where the lady still waited.

"Here is your faithful servant, my lady. He was recovering your pendant," he said.

After more detailed explanation, the lady was sufficiently convinced that her servant was indeed not stealing away with all of her belongings, but was in fact safeguarding her possessions.

"Thank you for your services," she said. "Here are 100 coins to compensate you for your troubles. Now J'Dzan and I shall be on our way. Farewell."

"Farewell," he waved as they continued on their journey. He returned home and dipped his quill into the inkpot, adding this adventure to his journal which he kept for this purpose.

* * *

**What do you think? Is this story worth continuing?**

**I haven't written a chapter in years, so please give me feedback, especially if the story is confusing. Comments, questions, suggestions are welcome.**


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